


Mirror, darkly

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, Extra Treat, Gen, Mirrors, Peter Lukas being incredibly unhelpful, Transformation, Wingfic, as usual, early Elias Bouchard, trick - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:23:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: He tries not to look into mirrors anymore.





	Mirror, darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cher/gifts).

> Written for the 2019 Trick or Treat Exchange

  1. Jon

Jon tries not to look into mirrors anymore. Not that he has a lot of chances, living in the Archives as he is. There are mirrors around, of course: notably the one in the men’s bathroom that has a crack running down the left-hand side from where Harold Sutherland accidentally punched it in 1978 whilst under the influence of quarter of a bottle of 148 proof absinthe. He was taken to University College Hospital at 11:37 pm where his hand was stitched up by Dr Saira Hollingdale who had been on call for fourteen hours straight and was so tired of being yelled at by senior doctors that she went home and cried that evening, not helped by the fact that her father-

No.

Jon squeezes his eyes shut and wrenches his thoughts away, forcibly shutting off the flow of information and slamming the door shut. It’s hard: every day it feels more and more like holding back a storm. How large is the ocean compared to the single drop of water that is the sum total of Jon’s experiences?

It hurts. Of course it hurts. But perhaps that’s better than the alternative.

But yes.

He tries not to look into mirrors anymore.

Because mirrors reflect the truth: the first astronomers who peered into dark pools to view the stars could attest to this. Seeking the truths of the universe in the night sky…

He snorts.

Apparently, the process of becoming a monster includes tangents into New Age philosophising. Or maybe the Fears are better tolerated by those who have a veneer of mysticism to cushion the unrelenting horror that their god brings. Blatant speculation there, after all correlation is not causation. Sloppy methods, not that Jon’s had a cause to think about academia rigour recently.

Sometimes, when he looks out at the Archives, he sees something Else. The dusty shelves and disorganised boxes are superimposed with innumerable, ghostly eyes. They don’t blink: merely stare out into the world catalogued and reviewed and filed away and replete with awful knowledge. 

(Not that looking, or not looking as the case might be, into mirrors really changes thing. Not since the first time he looked into one, months ago, after his not-death, when he stared at the haggard stranger before him and realised that he could See things. Things that he hadn’t precisely not noticed, but had paid no attention to, his gaze sliding off them in protective ignorance. As galling as he would have found it at the time, he can’t help but feel jealous of his younger self, who thought that the sum total of his problems was being horribly underqualified to take over the disaster of a Department that Gertrude had left him.)

Jon tries not to look into mirrors. Drags his mind away from the trailing shadows over the backs of those touched by the Eye. Closes his eyes and his Eyes.

But it doesn’t help.

ii.Elias

Elias can remember the first time he saw them. Honestly, he thought that he was high at first. And, honestly, he was: his first instinct was to throw himself off the top of the Institute in the certainty that he could fly.

He broke his left arm, and five ribs. No one could explain why it hadn’t been worse.

Once he had been discharged from hospital he had been firmly assigned to desk duty, ostensibly to allow himself to heal, but he knew that it was to keep an eye on him. Still, he didn’t complain: being James Wright’s personal assistant, no matter how he got the job, is definitely a promotion.

It also gave him a better chance to stare, eyes wide and conspicuously not high, at his boss. Not as common gossip had it, because he had a crush. No, because he could see them. And he wasn’t sure whether or not he was hallucinating.

(If he’d ever wandered down into the Archives, he might have started to wonder. But he didn’t. Not until it was too late. And then he already Knew).

One day, not long after his fall, Wright asked him to step into his office. And he closed the door behind him. And then he stepped close, uncomfortably close until Elias could see the pleased glint in his eyes, and just stood there. Watching.

“What-?” Elias asked. And then stopped.

Because Wright reached behind him and touched them. And he nearly passed out.

“How-”

“Yes,” Wright said, “Yes, I think that you’ll do nicely.” He gave a chuckle, and a meaningful glance toward the cast on Elias’ arm. “You’ve got that vein of curiosity in you, no matter how…stifled it’s been. And of course, you’ve been blessed.”

Elias whimpered. And then, suddenly, everything became very calm and clear.

James Wright collapsed to the floor in front of him, nothing more than an elderly white man.

Elias straightened himself. Rolled his shoulders back in satisfaction.

“Yes,” he said, “This will do nicely.”

(Inside, he was screaming, pinned in place and utterly Seen and Known until there was nothing left, and he was discarded like a broken toy. The being that was formerly Elias Bouchard collapsed into a small ball wrapped his limbs around himself, comforting himself with their warmth. And then he stopped. And then, a bit later, he was still.)

iii.Martin

He has an ache in his shoulders.

He shuffles in his chair trying to subtly stretch his back out. Too many late nights hunched over a desk, and not enough running away from eldritch monsters.

“Am I boring you?” Peter says, leaning back and plopping his feet on top of Elias’ desk. It’s a beautiful dark wood, probably centuries old and worth hundreds if not thousands of pounds. Peter’s shoes, sturdy brown boots with a patina of salt encrusted upon them, will probably ruin it. Martin is petty enough to feel a deep stab of satisfaction. He doesn’t let it show on his face, but Peter probably knows. He’s finding it hard to care.

“Yes,” Martin says flatly, shutting the spreadsheet that he’s working on and opening up Solitaire instead. It’s not like he’s going to get any work done anyway.

There’s a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder, but he grits his teeth and rides it out. He doesn’t make a sound but Peter, his expression normally hidden behind his affable mask, leans forward suddenly, interest sparking in his placid eyes.

“Oh yes,” he says, “I wondered whether that might be a side effect. Well, you know Elias: I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him one way or another.”

“What are you talking about?” Martin says. He doesn’t snap. He doesn’t have the energy to snap. But he is _so very tired_ of people not telling him things. He feels a brief pang of sympathy for Jon. He takes a moment to feel it, explore the emotion, turn it over in his head…And then he buries it.

“You are doing very well,” Peter says.

“Oh for- Can you just- urgh. Just tell me?” Martin says.

With a small smile and the air of someone engaged in a cosmic joke that you don’t quite understand, but will soon, nonetheless, become intimately familiar with, Peter leans forward and pats Martin on the shoulder. Only it’s not on the shoulder. It somewhere- beyond.

Martin shudders. He doesn’t- he really doesn’t like it. There’s a deep visceral horror to his reaction that he doesn’t understand because what is he touching?

“Hmm,” Peter says, leaning and twirling something in his hands. It’s- Martin doesn’t know where he can possibly have found it, but it looks like a long, ratty feather. It’s a plain grey, dishevelled and with the occasional bald patches along its spine. It looks like its owner has had a fatal entanglement with a cat. Or a car.

“Peregrine falcon, if I’m not mistaken,” Peter says, fiddling idly with the feather. Even as Martin watches, more fluff falls from it to drop sadly onto the ground and vanish. “How surprising.”

He stands up in one sudden movement and grins down at Martin.

“Peter, don’t you dare-!”

It’s useless of course. Peter fades away, the only proof of his presence his last words that hand ominously in the air:

“You’re doing wonderfully Martin. I can’t wait to see what you do next.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, Cher, you asked for a Jon that was becoming less human: I raise you three Beholding-touched humans becoming less human... 😂  
Martin's wings are those of a peregrine falcon, mostly because they're wanderers which seems incredibly Lonely to me, and also so that people can be surprised that they're a raptor's wings. Exposure to the Lonely means that they're being damaged: feathers brittle from the cold and falling out, not disappearing because Martin is after all still Beholding, but barely holding on. 
> 
> Also, in this universe all the Archival assistants totally have wings, they just can't see them.  
I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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